THE END OF THE RAILWAY.
Eastward from Tomsk the Trans-Siberian Railway passes through a country
of mountainous aspect. The foothills between the Obi River and Tomsk
itself develop into mountain ranges, up which the road-bed of the
railway is taken by many tortuous windings to the very top. As an
engineering feat, the railway engineers have to be commended for the
enterprise as a whole, but the shocking manner in which the line itself
is laid will always preclude any decent pace being attained on its
metals. Instead of cuttings or tunnelings, the whole line from Tigre
to Krasnoiarsk is but a series of sharp curves. Rather than tunnel or
cut through a bluff of insignificant proportions, the banking will
be carried around in zigzag fashion, only to meet another bluff not a
quarter of a mile away, which needs further curves.
Haste is shown in every feature of this section of the Siberian
railroad. At the outset of the enterprise it was estimated that Irkutsk
would be reached by the end of 1897; but while the laying of the road
over the flat steppes from Chelabinsk to the Obi River offered no
insuperable difficulties to the engineer, the mountains which had to be
traversed further on had been looked upon with too optimistic an eye,
and the consequence is that, in order to avoid borings or cuttings,
the line has been carried many miles out of its way, at a cost far
exceeding that which would have covered a properly laid and properly
engineered road-bed.
I had conversations with several engineers on this subject, but I
must confess that what I heard came rather as a shock to my ideas of
Russian State enterprise. “You see,” said one, “that we are engaged
to lay this railroad. It is to be finished all the way in about three
years’ time; after that what are _we_ going to do?” In other words,
the suggestion was that it would be foolish to kill the goose which
laid the golden eggs. And in corroboration of this I have heard many
suggestions from influential people in Siberia that the construction
of the railway has from its very commencement been one vast scheme of
bribery, corruption, and general mismanagement. Accidents to the first
trains to run over new sections have been numerous. On one new piece
of road between Marinsk and Atchinsk the first engine to travel over
the road disappeared bodily through the ballast into a small river
below, necessitating a delay of several months for repairs and another
excuse for extra pay. Still, all along that line there are signs of
prosperity. The peasantry, heretofore employed in agricultural pursuits
or the breeding of horses, are employed at wages which to them seem
fabulous. Prices have gone up all round, and everybody seems more or
less independent--and cheeky at that. Short-sighted, perhaps, for in a
few years, when the construction of the line shall be completed, they
will have to go back to their old pursuits, with less chance of making
those pursuits remunerative.
A day and a half after leaving Tomsk the train arrived at the banks of
the Chulim River, rather a small stream when compared to the Obi, Tom,
or Irtish, but still broad enough to make two of the River Thames at
London Bridge. A novel experience awaited us here, and one which we
had not bargained for. As on the Obi, the bridge was not finished--in
fact, only a couple of spans had been completed. The Russian engineer,
however, did not do here what he did at Kreveschokovo. Instead of
landing us out of the train to take sledges across the river, he
made use of Nature’s bridge, and that was the ice itself. A quarter
of a mile from the river the rails diverted from the main road, and
continued down the slope, and so on across the ice to the Atchinsk
side. The whole thing was so unexpected and so novel that each one of
us four gasped in astonishment. How deep the river was we did not know;
and whether the ice was thick enough to bear the several hundreds of
tons of locomotive and fifteen heavy carriages was another problem.
Anyway, we were all glad when, as the train drew slowly up on the bank
of the river, the conductor came up and requested us to descend and
walk to the other side--cheerfully remarking that if the train went
through only he, his fellow-conductors, and the engine-drivers would
be drowned. We descended. A cheerless waste of ice stretched before
us; beyond, over the river, we could see the glint of the sun on the
brazen dome of a church in Atchinsk, with the twilight gathering in its
greyness behind. The half-finished bridge stood out on our right, gaunt
and spidery, and nothing around us but the eternal white of the snow.
Out came the passengers, a nondescript and heterogeneous crowd,
smothered in furs, and all looking like gigantic bales of wool. Down
the bank and out on to the ice of the river we went; moujiks jabbering,
Chinovniks hustling through the crowd, and we, more interested than
any, slowly progressing in order to see the effect the train would have
in its passage across the ice. A whistle sounded, then another, and
yet another. The engine snorted, puffed, snorted again, puffed three
or four times and got up way slowly, drew to the shelving bank and
laboriously descended on to the ice. There was a distinct crunch as it
did so, and another crunch when the first car rolled on; but gradually
the whole train descended, and, at a pace not exceeding five miles an
hour, moved across the frozen surface. As it passed us we felt the ice
quiver, and heard innumerable cracks, like the reports of pistols in
the distance; but the train got across the centre safely, spurted when
near the bank, climbed up, and was on _terra firma_ again.
As a novel piece of railway engineering, I think the passage of the
Chulim River deserves commendation. Naturally it was impossible to
nail the ties to the ice, but the Russian engineer had obviated this
difficulty by freezing them on, and kept them frozen on by continual
douches of water which was brought in buckets from a hole in the ice.
I do not know the exact weight of that train, but it must have been
considerably heavier than an ordinary English train, inasmuch as the
carriages are built on a much more solid plan than our own. What struck
me more than anything was the indifference which all the passengers,
except ourselves, displayed in the affair. The taciturnity and
nonchalance of the Russian becomes almost exasperating at times. Here,
in face of what was distinctly a novel piece of railway travelling,
there was no one with the exception of our four selves to pass a word
of commendation, condemnation, or admiration of the feat.
Five minutes later we rolled into Atchinsk, where three mortal hours
were spent in a station which was, metaphorically speaking, little
larger than a bandbox, and not half so comfortable.
Through the night on we went, toiling over mountain passes, through
deep glens, or in and out gigantic forest glades, but with that
eternal snow everywhere, with nothing around us which was inspiring or
inspiriting. No moon, but with glinting stars that shed a pale light
down upon a melancholy and deserted country. Morning broke, still we
clattered on, but thankful that we were nearing our journey’s end. In
a few hours we should reach Krasnoiarsk, and there the Trans-Siberian
Railway would end, and we should have to resort to the primitive method
of locomotion which Siberians have known for hundreds of years, and
which they still cling fondly to--the tarantass sledge.
In the early morning we were descending the slopes of the mountain
range towards the valley of the Yenesei. Our train, in spite of the
indifferently laid road, got up something like a speed at times,
although I must admit the effect was not one to inspire confidence.
Round narrow curves and over trestle bridges, high embankments, and
across deep, sullen gorges, down which latter the very snow looked
black and forbidding. It was a great time, then, when the conductor
came and intimated that in one hour we should arrive at our journey’s
end. We commenced packing our traps with feverish haste; unpacked them
again when we found that we wanted something; packed them up, and
unpacked, in a delightful mood, engendered by the thoughts of something
fresh in store. At length we descended into the valley of the Yenesei,
and soon observed, from the end windows of the corridor carriages, the
little white town of Krasnoiarsk away in the distance.
At the station we repeated our experience of Tomsk--with one stupefying
alteration. This was the presentation of a hotel card by a dirty
looking individual who said, in broken German, that he was an
interpreter. Could it be possible that here, right out in the wilds
of Siberia, we had struck some sort of civilization? An interpreter!
We questioned him eagerly. What sort of hotel was it that he owed
allegiance to?--meanwhile that clamorous drosky drivers, crowding
around us, expatiated at length upon the merits of their particular
horses.
More sledging and more bumping over the frost-bound roads. The station,
as in duty bound, was three miles from the town, and a brisk drive of
half an hour landed us into its main street.
I must confess, however, that my impressions upon arrival were
considerably better than they had been on landing at Tomsk. Krasnoiarsk
is smaller, but it is much cleaner, and its situation is one which
cannot fail to elicit admiration. The tall mountains rear up all
around it, and in the narrow cleft on a low belt of land, past which
the broad and majestic Yenesei has its course, Krasnoiarsk lies. With
the exception of the one opening in the cliffs the town is entirely
sheltered; thus it was not surprising to find the snow not nearly so
deep as we had found it in other parts of Siberia--in fact, on several
parts of the high street we found our sledges running on the brown
earth of the roadway--while the atmosphere was distinctly warmer than
we had experienced so far.
The hotel which we put up at was attached to the post-station, a long
low building, but surprisingly clean and well ordered in comparison
with other Siberian hotels which we had stayed at. We even found, when
on a voyage of discovery, a billiard-table in the basement, and great
was our amazement thereat. The proprietor of the hotel, who was a Jew
of the most Hebrew cast of countenance possible to conceive, busied
himself to a great extent. He got us food in an incredibly short space
of time, he did all that he could to assist us in our difficulties,
and he did something more--and that was to ingratiate himself into our
favour of his race.
It is freely stated that Krasnoiarsk will become in the space of a few
short years the most important city in all Siberia. At the present
time it is, like Tomsk, a town of merchants and gold-miners. It is
something more--it is a penal settlement. About eighty per cent. of the
population of Krasnoiarsk consists of exiles, and these include not
only the very lowest class of the peasantry, but some of the wealthiest
and most influential men of the town. In Siberia it holds something of
a black name on account of its enormous percentage of exiled criminals,
and I have heard it said that, so great is the bond between exile and
exile, that the inhabitant who is a native-born Siberian, and not the
descendant of a convict, is not only tabooed from the so-called society
of the town, but has a very bad time in commercial matters. I give the
following story for what it is worth, but it is related that a certain
merchant of Krasnoiarsk found such difficulty in doing business with
the inhabitants, in view of that bond of sympathy existing between
the exiles, that he determined to become one of their class. To this
end he journeyed to St. Petersburg, committed a crime, and was sent
to Siberia in chains. After doing a short term of imprisonment in the
Alexandrovsk prison at Irkutsk, he journeyed back to Krasnoiarsk,
recommenced his business, and got on famously. Lie or no lie, I saw
enough in my little stay in this penal settlement to convince me that,
however little honour there may be amongst thieves, there is a great
deal of sympathy.
[Illustration: KRASNOIARSK FROM THE RIVER.]
To Englishmen Krasnoiarsk will be interesting from the fact that it
is the point of debarkation for English steamers. A few years ago
Captain Wiggins, an explorer of Northern seas, conceived the idea of
forcing the passage of the Kara Sea to the mouth of the Yenesei River,
and then to proceed by stream over a thousand miles to Krasnoiarsk.
After many fruitless attempts he succeeded in his object, and to his
success was due the formation of the Siberian Trading Syndicate. The
Russian Government was approached, and in order to encourage foreign
enterprise in Siberia a special concession was given to the English
syndicate, which allowed them to carry goods viâ the Kara Sea and the
Yenesei River into the heart of Siberia, free of duty. At the time,
it was predicted that nothing could stop the gigantic success of the
enterprise, but bungling at home and an ignorance of the requirements
of the Siberian trader led to complications and vicissitudes. Goods
were sent out which were of no earthly use to the Siberians. Ships
came along loaded to the very decks with goods which are to this day
lying rotting or rusting on the banks of the Yenesei. Much money was
lost, but considerable experience gained. The company was reconstructed
again and again; but, hard on the heels of the enterprise, came the
Trans-Siberian Railway, and whatever chances the Kara Sea route to
Siberia may have had in the past, it is difficult to reconcile its
success in the future with the construction of railway communication
from the Baltic to the Pacific.
In this Siberian enterprise the name of Mr. Leyland Popham, a
well-known London financier, stands out prominently. He has spent many
thousands of pounds in the development of his hobby, and it is to be
regretted that with special and unheard of concessions to foreigners
in Siberia his enterprise should not have borne better fruit. It
only exemplifies, however, the difficulty which all foreigners must
experience in trading with a country so different in every respect to
Europe.
The conditions of Siberia, it should always be remembered, are
diametrically opposed to those of the Western states; but it is a
difficult matter to convince the stay-at-homes of this fact, that
they are not dealing with a civilized country, but one which is even
more barbarous and primitive than the most barbarous and primitive
of the British colonies. It is a country where prejudice ranks above
everything, and where it is almost impossible to convince. The
Siberian is not the sort of man who will accept for gospel truth, by
means of an advertisement, that such and such a pick, or such and such
a machine, are better than the implements which his grandfather used.
What he wants you to do is to go there, demonstrate by actual working
that your instrument _is_ better than his, and then he will buy. This
feeling has contributed more to the failure of foreign enterprise in
Russia than many people are prone to admit.
Krasnoiarsk is also famous in connection with the Chinese tea trade.
The tea traffic of Russia, as my readers are perhaps aware, is one of
enormous proportions, and the Chinese tea which travels overland from
the fertile valleys south of the Great Wall, over the Gobi Desert,
through Urga, Kiakta, and Irkutsk, is handled in its commercial sense
by the great tea-merchants of Krasnoiarsk. Most of this traffic occurs
during the winter, when the frozen roads offer greater facilities
for travel than during summer, when mud, sand, and deep dust makes
travelling on the post-roads an extremely difficult undertaking. From
the time when the snow fairly settles on the high-road, some time in
October, until the break up in April, the whole road over the desert
south of Lake Baikal, and the Yeneseik Mountains, is one line of tea
caravans. It is sent in its original bales by the Chinese grower, but
in Krasnoiarsk is redistributed to the various centres of the Empire.
Many men have made fortunes out of the tea trade, which soon became
almost a monopoly, and how this came about forms the subject of an
interesting story.
Some forty years ago a certain merchant in Krasnoiarsk, who handled
an enormous amount of Chinese tea, conceived the rather novel idea,
at least to Siberians, of insuring his caravans. This was in the time
when escaped prisoners, brigands, cut-throats, and general desperadoes
thronged the high-road between Irkutsk and Krasnoiarsk, and as the
caravans, each one consisting of some forty to fifty sledges, were
in the charge of only two men to each caravan, there was considerable
danger of not only losing the tea but also the horses. Our wily
tea-trader, however, went even one better than the insurance scheme
could give him. He actually employed thieves to stop his own caravans
and steal his own tea. The stolen tea the hired thieves brought along
to him by a circuitous route, and was sold by him _sub rosâ_, while he
pocketed the insurance indemnity which the then guileless companies
paid up with a liberal hand. By such methods as these, this particular
tea-trader grew up in affluence, and, being in a land where swindling
was only part and parcel of the general condition of things, when
the bubble burst things were hushed up, and he went on his career
smilingly, a rich man and an independent. Being an exile, however, and
forbidden to leave Siberia for life, his wealth availed him little,
for it could not be spent beyond the confines of his home. Still,
the exercise of his capital was so great that in the few years of
his trading he had been able to crush all formidable opposition, and
could not only supply all markets of Siberia and European Russia at a
cheaper rate than any other trader, but he was able to purchase from
the Chinese grower a class of tea which could not be rivalled. Whether
the Government was reluctant to make a scandal of his pecadilloes, or
preferred to let things slide in consideration of the excellent tea
with which this trader supplied the community it is difficult to say,
but it only constitutes one of those peculiarities of Russian customs
which are for ever offering problems to he who cares to think.